


the interest on your debt

by youaremyscience



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, Awkward Sexual Situations, Demisexuality, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Story: The Adventure of the Red-Headed League
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremyscience/pseuds/youaremyscience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well, maybe you can make it up to me." One innocuous statement from John that changes the course of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to PrettyArbitrary.

It's an absurd proposition. It very nearly offends him in its ridiculousness.

"It's not about – it doesn't have to make _sense_ , Sherlock, it's just – " but John appears to give up and wanders vaguely out of the room. Which turns out to be one of his better tactics, as in his absence, Sherlock must continue the discussion with himself, leading to eight possible conclusions, from which he selects the most convincing and then agrees with himself.

When John finally reappears, Sherlock stands and nods at him. "The terms are acceptable." He crosses the room to stand directly before John and leans down to press his closed mouth very quickly against John's slightly open one. There is no additional touching.

John closes his mouth, then opens it, several times, before he gives up and leaves the room again. Nearly 20 minutes pass before he returns.

"I wasn't really – Sherlock, it was a joke."

"It wasn't especially funny."

"It was just a comment, something to – I don't know, lighten the mood. I was not seriously suggesting –"

"But you do enjoy the suggestion. That's fairly obvious."

John clears his throat. "Yes, Sherlock, thank you. But it's just – well it's not on, is it? Expecting you to –"

" _Make it up to me_ were your exact words, John."

John lets out the sigh that means 'I don't know why you don't get this' but as always, he's wrong. Sherlock gets it, maybe more than John. Jokes are never just jokes, are they? Sherlock knows this, knows how people say something and pretend they didn't mean it but no one ever really says things they don't mean, they just say things they don't want to admit are true.

John leaves.

John comes back an hour later.

"I don't forgive you, Sherlock. But I do – you still. Well, you still mean what you, you know, always have."

"I appreciate that, John, but as I believe I stated before, I would have your forgiveness."

John's face flashes his conflict before settling into a grim sort of acceptance, which isn't exactly encouraging for what Sherlock believes is the traditional mood of this sort of arrangement. John steps forward, neatly fitting himself into Sherlock's space, an aggressive display of squared shoulders and puffed chest, chin tilted very slightly upward. At the sight of it, Sherlock rounds his own shoulders and dips his face down, intending to kiss John again.

"Ah, no. Not just yet. I need to know that you want to do this."

Sherlock huffs his impatience. "I've already said—"

"No. Not that you are willing to do it because you want the end result. The actual things we might do."

This gives Sherlock pause. He had not in truth considered the acts themselves. He assumed from the tone of John's voice when he'd first made the fateful comment, and the slight quirk of an eyebrow, that the acts were to be sexual in nature. The idea hadn't been unpleasant, though if it were entirely his own choice, Sherlock would skip straight to the forgiveness.

Something of his hesitation must be evident to John, who slips into his 'compassion voice' and puts a warm hand on Sherlock's forearm – perhaps he thinks it neutral territory, but a strange feeling in his stomach makes Sherlock disagree. "Sherlock. I genuinely didn't mean it the way you took it. I want you, of course I do. Apparently that didn't go away. But I don't honestly expect you to shag me to make up for faking your death, that's – I don't even know what that is."

Oh, and Sherlock wants _weeks_ to think over everything John just revealed. "It's absurd," he finally says. "But we talked it through, and – I want to do it, I need to – "

"Sherlock, we did not talk it through."

"Of course we did, you just weren't there."

John's face goes complicated again. "You still carry on talking when I’m away."

"Or, as it turns out, when I am."

John leaves.

John is gone for a very long time before he returns, eyes slightly red but with an expression that invites no commentary on that fact.

"Okay," he says, and Sherlock needs to know why but John just swallows hard and repeats himself. "Okay."

 

Once they are in Sherlock's bed with their shirts off, the arrangement seems even more ridiculous than Sherlock had initially thought. He has seen John's torso before, and John has seen his. Romantic notions would indicate that, in this context, their exposed flesh would have new meaning. Romantic notions are inane.

"Perhaps if we actually touched a little?" John suggests, and damn him for the mocking lilt to his voice. If he'd gone with self-deprecating, Sherlock would have been fine, but he'll not be made to feel inadequate. He quickly glances over John and suddenly seizes a nipple, pinching it with what he hopes is an appropriately erotic amount of force. John's howl of pain and startled jerk backwards (really an error given Sherlock's grip) indicate he has miscalculated. He freezes in anticipation of John's reaction. Which, when it comes, is a bit surprising and entirely John: he laughs.

"I do love finding things you're rubbish at," he says, resuming his original position, then leaning in a bit closer. Sherlock's pride wants to bristle, but the angry pink mark on John's chest can't really be argued with. John takes Sherlock's hand in his own and brings Sherlock's fingers to his chest. He strokes Sherlock's fingers along the other nipple, with much less force, and Sherlock finds he would be interested to know exactly how much force John prefers and if it would be possible to measure. This inspires several attempts to find an optimal grip, but ultimately John does not react in any conclusive way. Sherlock pulls his hand back and looks at John, who is biting his lip to keep from laughing.

Even though it's directed at him, it's a bit charming, Sherlock realizes, and he presses his lips to the spot John is biting. John goes very still.

"Am I rubbish at that, too?" he snaps. He is irritated at not knowing what to do; additionally he is beginning to feel a slight panic that John finds him unsatisfactory.

John shakes his head slightly and pulls Sherlock closer until their foreheads touch. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut because John is entirely too close this way. John brings their mouths together gently at first, and Sherlock relaxes as much as he can, until John reaches some indefinable point and decides to go harder, pushes Sherlock's lips apart with his own and gently runs his tongue along the very inside of Sherlock's mouth, from corner to corner, dipping into the center of his bottom lip and rather taking his time there. Sherlock's eyes open without his permission, which he finds troubling, but he is treated to the sight of John's eyes closed, a tiny wrinkle of concentration between his brows, and decides he shall keep them open forevermore.

As John continues his increasingly forceful exploration of Sherlock's mouth, one hand remains steady and warm on the back of Sherlock's neck, but the other strokes down Sherlock's spine, and he rethinks his earlier conclusion on the validity of shirtlessness.

After three minutes John pulls back. Sherlock is pleased that he has not lost his sense of time. The sensations are enjoyable but not overwhelming.

"More, then?"

Sherlock nods. He cannot say he specifically wants more, but he also doesn't object.

John frowns, just a bit, and Sherlock feels again the tenuousness of his position. "That is to say, yes, John, more is… more would be good."

"Another night, then. We'll leave it here for now."

Sherlock immediately has four different opinions and wants to argue all of them. John's mouth is firm, though, which means he will hear none of this. Sherlock remains silent. It is, after all, Sherlock's restitution. He would rather have it over and done, but John's terms are not unreasonable, and he expects he oughtn't to kick up a fuss this early in the proceedings.

John pulls his shirt back on and stops into the loo before popping his head back in to say goodbye. That John has retained his own flat is but one thing Sherlock hopes this process will correct.

\----

There are two more encounters not drastically different from the first. Mostly kissing, once on the sofa and once again in Sherlock's bed. There is more touching of chests and backs, and Sherlock continues to find it mildly pleasant and not as inconvenient as he'd feared. But he knows this is surely not all John wants, and if he continues to allow this pace, they will die of old age before Sherlock has earned John's forgiveness.

It is difficult to play-act with John, but Sherlock presses the advantage of John having forgotten some of his tricks in the intervening years. On their fourth encounter, John kisses Sherlock's neck for the first time, and he sees a perfect opportunity. He does enjoy the feeling, John's short hair brushing his cheek, lips and a hint of teeth working at his throat. He simply has to exaggerate the response, and lets out the best moan he can conjure, which is apparently not right, as John snaps his head back so quickly their chins collide in a jarring fashion. "Are you all right?" Sherlock lets his embarrassment over the mistake show, hoping John will misread it – and John takes the bait, leaning back in to resume his work, slightly more gently. He whispers against Sherlock's skin. "You've just been so quiet until now. Like that, then?" and Sherlock nods, feigns breathlessness, and John growls a bit and moves the biting down to Sherlock's chest and stomach, and then – Sherlock crows inwardly at his success – tucks his thumbs into the waistband of Sherlock's pants. Sherlock nods at John's unspoken question, yes, please, let's accelerate the pace. For one idiotic moment he is concerned that John will not be pleased with Sherlock's genitals, but he shakes the thought from his head and focuses on how to scheme John's pants off him.

It is much more difficult than he had anticipated, providing manual stimulation to another person. What he is familiar with is apparently entirely unsatisfactory for John, who just gapes at him a bit before wrapping his own hand around Sherlock's and showing him how to move it. Sherlock is a quick study, however, and John is gasping and ejaculating over their hands within 4 minutes. Sherlock is not erect and begins to prepare himself for an argument about that, but John falls asleep with his sticky hand resting on his own stomach, and Sherlock is able to get up and wash his own hands. He frowns a bit at John's snoring form. Were he a betting man, he would have wagered that John was the sort to ensure his partner's satisfaction before his own, or at least before falling asleep. Perhaps that is only a concern with women. Or perhaps John simply does not care if Sherlock is satisfied. This should be a relief, but he finds it is vaguely upsetting. He uses some loo roll to wipe the semen from John's hand and considers it for a moment before deciding it's dried too much for any sort of analysis and flushing it.

\----

When John wakes the following morning, Sherlock is seated at the kitchen table making notes on his bone deterioration study. John mumbles an apology for falling asleep and offers to rectify the imbalance right then. Sherlock has already dressed for the day so he dismisses the idea out of hand as an unnecessary hassle. He shakes his head at John, then freezes at his idiocy. _This is John's to decide, not yours_. He clears his throat and twists to look at John, who is leaning against the worktop with a bleary expression. "Unless of course you'd like me to, in which case obviously –"

The traces of sleep clinging to his face dissolve instantly and John stands straight. He rushes forward and grabs Sherlock's chin in his left hand, tilting his face so they make eye contact. "Sherlock. Never anything you don't want."

"That is precisely the opposite of the point, John! It's meant as reparations to you, therefore you determine whether or not I do something."

John lets go of Sherlock and steps back. "Reparations, Jesus Christ." He backs away another step and his face is doing something that terrifies Sherlock. "What the fuck are we doing, Sherlock? What am I doing?"

"You're letting me make it up to you."

John shakes his head, his fists clenched, and lets out a sound that Sherlock cannot categorize.

John leaves.

John does not come back.

Sherlock waits several hours, finishing his observations on the bones, putting everything away, even cleaning the kitchen somewhat. He moves to the sitting room, shuffling papers and taking books out of their boxes and putting them back on the shelves. He notes that he owes Mycroft a debt of gratitude for rescuing his things from donation to Oxfam. So many debts he owes. It's patently ridiculous, he thinks suddenly, with white fury. He died to protect them in the first place! Surely he doesn't need to be forgiven for that. And it wasn't much good being dead for a few days. No one would have even cared, it certainly wouldn't have bought him back the public goodwill that a resurrection after 2 years had. He didn't particularly care about the public goodwill, of course, but they influenced what the government did, and Sherlock did after all have several serious cases pending against him. He'd needed the goodwill of the people, and the guilt and relief of several key police officers. He'd calculated that two years would be enormously beneficial in easing his way. It was necessary. He owes no one, not even John. But John sees it differently, and Sherlock wants nothing more than for things to be what they were before. John must forgive him before that can happen, so Sherlock will earn it. But he does not understand why John can't simply accept that Sherlock acted in everyone's best interest.

He remembers John's question, after the punching and the storming off and the returning and punching again, and the spot of crying and the unexpected but very pleasant hug. "Why didn't you tell me?" He'd pleaded for an answer and Sherlock had not provided one. He didn't have one. Or rather, he did, but he expected the telling of it would lose him John forever. It was already quite incredible John would even see him, let alone speak to him, let alone try to be his friend again.

Try telling him it simply didn't occur to you at first. Watch what happens then. Tell him you then watched him cry at your grave. Tell him you saw his pain, and couldn't face it, couldn't accept it or understand it. Tell him you ran away and hid, and stayed hidden until you couldn't bear it any longer. Tell him you missed him.

Sherlock is trembling with frustration and anger and a wash of memories of missing John, a thing he could never have predicted and was not prepared for, a pang in his stomach like hunger and pain in his chest like he'd been running in the cold, but worse than both because there was no recovery.

Sherlock goes to find John. He is at his flat, so it is an altogether disappointingly dull search. John opens the door and then drifts away, but he leaves it open so Sherlock follows him inside.

John is sitting on his sofa, staring at Sherlock with exasperation. "Well? What do you want?"

Sherlock sits next to John, nearly on the same cushion, so they are pressed together along their sides. John flinches but does not draw away. "Don't be cross with me, John," he tries, injecting a note of coquettishness which has worked for him in the past with other men.

John merely scowls. "Don't try that on with me."

Sherlock drops his half-smile and huffs. "What do you want me to do, then?"

"Tell me the truth."

"Can't I just let you bugger me? That must be easier."

John's eyes flutter closed. "There will be no buggering."

"Oh." Sherlock ought to be pleased by that, really. Odd that he isn't. "Why not?"

"Because you're my best friend. And sex isn't currency, and it's ludicrous I even considered it. It's wrong, Sherlock. I behaved horribly."

"I was perfectly consenting, John."

"No, you really weren't. It was coercive, and I meant it as a bloody joke. I can't believe we actually –"

"You didn't mean it as a joke. You want me. I hurt you and I owe you, so I was giving you something you want. It makes perfect sense."

"But sex can't be something you owe to another person, Sherlock."

"Why not? I don't understand."

John sighs, and it's the sad one, the one that means he pities Sherlock. "I know you don't. Just take it from me, all right?"

Panic is bubbling up inside him. It was going to work, it could still work, if John weren't so bloody-minded. "You've had your moral crisis, I've assured you I am perfectly willing and content to continue the process. You can have anything you like, anything you need to make things right between us."

"You genuinely believe if I just fuck you, it will undo the years I spent thinking you were dead?"

Sherlock shrugs. How is he supposed to know what fucking someone can do?

"It doesn't work that way, Sherlock." John sighs and is quiet for a long time. He picks up Sherlock's hand and threads their fingers together, stares at them. "Do you know why I missed you so much?"

"No," Sherlock answers, honestly, before he can think about it.

John cringes. "Well, all the usual reasons, I suppose, the way you miss people who mean something and then go away. But that happens all the time. You were dead, and it fucking ruined me because – you were something so important, not just to me, Sherlock, to the world. And something remarkable was lost when you just tipped yourself off the fucking roof of St. Bart's, and I stood there and saw it happen, and couldn't change it, or make sense of it afterwards." He draws deep breaths, and Sherlock imagines he is seeing it again, and Sherlock remembers the sticky repulsive feeling of someone else's blood in his hair, remembers trying to hold his face still as John's eyes took him in, remembers John's voice and his legs going out underneath him – Sherlock shakes his head firmly and is alarmed to feel pricks of tears in the corners of his eyes. John does not appear to notice and carries on, "The worst thing, though, wasn't missing just who you were or what you were. But what you…" he takes a deep breath and barrels on, as if he might lose his nerve, "What you could have been. The hardest thing in the world to live with is a missed opportunity."

Sherlock rolls these words over in his mind and cannot make them make sense. "A missed opportunity at what?"

John smiles a little, and finally turns his head to meet Sherlock's eyes. "At us, I guess. I loved you, you know, and I didn't let myself know it. So then you never knew it. And you should've known it, Sherlock."

Sherlock's entire body goes very cold, then very hot. "You don't mean that, John. You romanticized me, and our time together, after my tragic and untimely death. That happens, I think, doesn't it? Perfectly natural."

John drops Sherlock's hand and stands up. "Yes, perfectly natural. Unlike forcing your friend into having sex with you because he thinks it'll even up the scorecard."

"You didn't force me. For god's sake. You're being ridiculous."

"If I told you that it didn't matter what you did, I'd never forgive you. What would you do?"

It is an impossible question. He would go mad, of course, but he cannot tell John that. It's best if John doesn't know. He did say _loved_ , after all. A condition caused by death, cured by being alive.

John seems to take his silence as an answer in itself, and walks to the door, holding it open and staring at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock rises, his body numb, and wracks his brain from the sofa to the door for one good thing to say.

"Will you still come see me sometimes?" Pathetic.

John smiles. "Course I will, Sherlock. Nothing's changed."

Which, to Sherlock's mind, is precisely the problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come. The mature rating may get bumped up to an explicit, but at this point I'd rather underpromise and overdeliver.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new client has Sherlock and John working together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter focusing on the case bit of the story. Hopefully updated soon (sorry for the long wait, it's... kind of a thing with me?) Thank you so much for reading/commenting/etc.

"Pick something else, then."  

"Not living with you is supposed to mean you can't wake me up at arse o'clock." John doesn't bother asking Sherlock how he got in. It must be too early for him to splutter indignantly. This is why Sherlock likes waking John up, he's far more amiable when half conscious.  

"John, will you focus? I said pick something else."  

Sherlock watches in frustration as John finally catches up. "Oh, well, of course it's that easy."  

"It ought to be."  

"What if I needed you to forgive _me_ for something? How easy do you think you'd find that?"  

It's impossible to know. John needing forgiveness requires him hurting Sherlock in some way. Sherlock is not easily hurt, and though John certainly has the capability of hurting him, he’ll likely never do so. Well. Not intentionally, and intentionally should be the only thing requiring forgiveness. Should be, but evidently isn’t. Sherlock is now concerned he has been silent for too long. Luckily, John does not appear to actually expect an answer. He throws his covers back and sits up on the side of his sad single bed. Single bed. Sad? A bed can't be sad, it's inanimate. Why did he think sad? Ah, John has gone into the loo. Sherlock finds himself thinking he is sorry to have missed the sight. He then finds himself worrying that John has been right all these years and he should, in fact, sleep more. His mind is frankly troubling this morning.  

John is speaking as he exits the loo and enters the kitchen. None of these actions take him very far away. Such a small space. Why on earth doesn't he want to come back to their flat?  

John has stopped speaking and is staring at him, yes, that’s incredulously. Ah. Must have spoken aloud.  

"Did you really just ask me that?"  

"It's not such a surprising question, surely."  

"No, I just thought, since you hadn't asked yet, that we were sort of… not talking about it."  

"Perhaps we weren't, but I'm bored of that now. Come back. It's larger, and your bed there is not so sad."  

John steps closer to Sherlock and peers at his face with mild concern. "You ought to get some rest, Sherlock. And drink some water." Sherlock makes a face. He loathes drinking water, it's an ordeal of temperatures, too warm, too cold, and the types of bottled water are overwhelming and the tap tastes odd and it's easier just to forego the whole disaster. John has produced a glass of it and is pressing it into Sherlock's hand, and he sips and forces himself to swallow it, just to spare himself the nagging. When John turns around Sherlock allows himself to shudder at the experience. Then it occurs to him.  

"I'll drink water! All the time, and I'll sleep, and eat. Would that – " but he can tell already from the line of John's shoulders that it won't. He stays quiet for several minutes, as John stares at the countertop and does nothing.  

"Why do you even care?" John asks, finally, quietly. "Whether I forgive you or not? I've already said we can spend time together, I'll even come with you if you start taking cases again. I don't have to forgive you."  

Because, Sherlock wants to say, you won't come home. You'll still have that look on sometimes, when I turn back to you quickly, like you want to slap me or run from me or worst of all like you want to cry and your eyes will do that awful business and the muscle in your jaw will jump with your restraint and I will hate it John I will absolutely hate it.  

He doesn't say these things. How can he? He glares at John, which usually communicates something, and leaves without another word. John's right, really. Logically, his forgiveness is not necessary. Even without it, Sherlock expects he might talk John into coming back to Baker Street. And yet it persists, like a loose thread, an unsolved puzzle, a game that he can’t win. Unacceptable.  

It isn’t until he has been wandering around town for several hours that he realizes what John said: I’ll come with you if you start taking cases again. Oh, John following him and taking orders from him. He is sometimes even useful, though usually disappointingly stupid. But at other times, John will have a gun in his hand, and John with a gun in his hand is never stupid. Sherlock and John on a case, communicating with just a look, fitting into each other’s spaces and the adrenaline and then when it's all over, the laughing. The thing in his veins that probably could be called desire. 

Sherlock updates his blog to indicate clients can call again. It will be a madhouse, it’s already been nonstop since he came back, Mrs. Hudson is going spare, but even a mildly diverting case will be worth it.

 ----  

Sherlock ultimately decides to take the case of Jabez Wilson, who has written him a number of emails without ever explicitly stating his case. Sherlock emails a time to come to Baker Street and texts John. He finds himself tidying the sitting room while waiting for John to arrive, fidgeting with his suit jacket and checking his hair. Nervous, that's what nervous looks like, and it's ludicrous. It's John, for god's sake. John and a client, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.  

Sherlock leaps to his feet when he hears the front door open and Mrs. Hudson exclaiming over John, who does not appear for several minutes, engaged in menial small talk. Sherlock finally bellows in frustration. "We have a client, John, we need to prepare!" John still does not appear for several additional minutes.  

"Don't shout at me. And exactly what preparation needs to be done for a client?"  

Sherlock is at a loss, momentarily. "I haven't any idea what the case is. This man Wilson has emailed a number of times," and here Sherlock thrusts his tablet at John to display the emails.  

"So you're taking it because the person asked you a lot? That's…"  

"No, John, of course not. If that was my criteria I'd be taking the case of Mrs. Turner's missing poodle, about which she apparently will not stop chewing Mrs. Hudson's ear. I'm taking the case because he won't tell me what it is. Most of them try to convince me with how exciting it'll be and how troubling I'll find it. Mr. Wilson has not attempted to do this, which I find intriguing."  

A knock on the front door in the pattern Sherlock indicated to Mr. Wilson via email. A system he's decided to use after a few security breaches, individuals managing to convince Mrs. Hudson they had appointments, or simply waiting until she stepped out and taking advantage of the tendency of individuals to leave doors unlocked when just popping next door.  

“Ah, that’ll be him.” Stating the obvious, what is _wrong_ with him.  

John walks out to the landing and comes back in quickly. “Ah, not quite. Sherlock, please don’t be rude.”  

What on earth… Oh. Interesting. “Jabez is traditionally a male name.”  

John groans, but their client just smiles. “I don’t really hold with tradition.”  

Sherlock smirks. “John, don’t be rude, take the lady’s coat.”  

John works his mouth indignantly for a moment before snapping it closed again and turning away from Sherlock. Jabez has already removed her coat and is holding it out to John with a smile. He takes it and hangs it carefully on the coat stand, running his hands over the pockets, checking for weapons or interesting tidbits he ought to pilfer for Sherlock to examine later.

“How do you prefer to be addressed?” John asks, less afraid now that Sherlock is going to be an ass.  

“Jabez is just fine. Miss Wilson, I suppose, if you’re going to be formal.” She smiles again and John smiles back easily. Sherlock gestures for her to have a seat in his own chair, then plants himself firmly in John’s, relegating John to the other side of the room on the sofa. Unfortunately, John fails to pick up on this, and pulls the desk chair over, positioning it closer to Miss Wilson than to Sherlock himself. Sherlock finds himself annoyed but refocuses on the client. She’s well-groomed, dressed decently though not overly expensively, wearing minimal makeup. He finds it impossible to deduce whether she is simply a low-key individual about appearances, or if she is secure in her appearance unaltered, or if she was distracted by something and did not follow her usual routine. Are there different factors at play? Interesting to consider. Return focus. She is attractive, he suppose,s but not striking in any particular way but for the shade of her hair, a red that looks like flames, a shade Sherlock has never witnessed occur naturally, yet there are no signs that the color is false.  

“Well, Miss Wilson. What brings you to me?” He feels awkward, rusty, and it frustrates him endlessly. It should have just been a simple matter of coming back, oh by the way everyone I’m alive, and back to normal. Instead he feels sluggish and wrong in his skin, like he doesn’t know how to proceed. He wants to look at John for some form of assurance, but he knows the look John gets on his face around a pretty woman, and he imagines it is probably not different even if the woman is unconventional. John wants Sherlock, after all, it’s not like he restricts himself. _Focus._  

Jabez takes a deep breath and looks down at her hands in her lap. “It’s so ridiculous,” she begins, and then stops again. 

“We’ve heard all sorts of crazy things,” John encourages.  

Sherlock grits his teeth and barks, “If you want my help, you’d do better not to waste my time.”  

She winces very slightly and takes another deep breath. "For the last several weeks, I've been employed on a modeling job. It was like a dream come true, I was getting desperate financially, and I don't tend to get much work. But this was such a perfect match, I was thrilled when I heard about it." At this, she hands her phone to Sherlock, displaying a casting call from a modeling agency seeking transgender women, ages 18-26, only natural redheads to apply.  

"The League," Sherlock reads aloud, handing the phone back. "Is this an agency you are familiar with?"  

"No, but it seemed legitimate, there were quite a few of us at the call, it wasn't like the sketchy deals where they ask you for payment or anything. They picked me right away, said my hair was the perfect shade. Had me working only 2 days later! They had me in very well-known designers. I mean, it seemed like a professional operation."  

"But?"  

"After only 6 shoots, I showed up to the warehouse where we'd been working, and there was no one there, only this sign on the door that said 'The League is no longer in business.' I couldn't reach Archie – that's my agent, or Mr. Spaulding – he was the director of the agency."  

"So you want to find them and get paid?"  

"That's the thing, Mr. Holmes – I was paid. 150 pounds a day!" At the slight raise of Sherlock's eyebrow she clarifies, "That's nearly unheard of for an inexperienced, unsigned model with, let's be honest, somewhat tricky marketability."  

"And that didn't make you suspicious?"  

"Of course, but they handed me cash at the start of each day – and no one ever asked me to take my clothes off, either."  

John startles a bit at that but Sherlock doesn't need clarification – a disreputable agency might, for that amount and for such a client, have been unscrupulous. It had been his next question. Silence falls as Sherlock turns the details in his mind.  

"I'm afraid I don't really see the problem," John offers. "If you've been paid, and not wronged in any way, why come to us?" 

"Well it's just, it's weird, isn't it? And Archie, he'd been my agent for months, well – my friend, really, he was round my house all the time and now he's just vanished!"  

Sherlock leans forward, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "How did he come to be your agent, precisely?"  

"Well, it was the strangest coincidence, we just met out, I was having a drink with some friends from my old job, and he came and introduced himself, going on about how I ought to be a model – thought he was just chatting me up, at first."  

"But then it turned out he was an agent, and oh you are _already_ a model, well of course!" Sherlock imitates, then goes into a vague stare. Jabez turns to look at John.  

"Ah, he's probably imagining all your conversations over in his mind. He'll do that."  

For nearly five minutes, John and Jabez make small talk while Sherlock drums his fingers on his chin and pays them no attention. All at once, he leaps up. "Miss Wilson, I must see your home at once."

\--- 

Jabez and John stand and watch Sherlock dart around the basement like a lunatic, knocking on random bits of wall and stomping at odd intervals. Apparently this provides some knowledge, as he retrieves his phone from a pocket and sweeps up the stairs without a word, furiously texting. John feels himself smile at the familiar confusion on Jabez's face. It was pretty good to see Sherlock at work, even if so far all he'd done was get himself incredibly dusty. Without thinking, John finds himself running his hands over Sherlock's shoulders and back to brush the reddish dust off. Jabez looks embarrassed. "I'm sorry it was so filthy down there, I'd no idea! I haven't been down there myself a lot, well not recently."  

Sherlock fixes her with one of his more intimidating questioning looks and she blanches. "What've I said?" 

"When?"  

"Er, just now –"  

Sherlock huffs in frustration. "No, you – when were you down there last?"  

"Oh, it must've been… a month?"  

"And before that?"  

"A few times, Archie was seeing if we couldn't use it as a darkroom."  

From the twist of his mouth, John knows that Sherlock has just gotten the last piece he needs. He resumes his texting, then rounds on them. "We'll need to be down there tonight. I'm having that Inspector Jones join us."  

"What for?"  

"I believe we're going to stop a crime."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously this is very closely modeled on The Adventure of the Red-Headed League.


	3. Chapter 3

Inspector Jones is a woman in her early thirties and reasonably competent. He is always grateful when he finds competent officers, but Jones is set apart by her complete lack of interest in Sherlock as anything other than a useful mind on a case. It is been appallingly frequent that various police men and women have been too awestruck (although rightfully so) or, god forbid, flirtatious, to be of any real value. Jones accepts Sherlock’s input but remains quietly skeptical, does not find him physically attractive, and once when particularly frustrated with him, stated that when he was inevitably murdered, no jury would convict his killer. The chances she has designs on him are rather low. She additionally has never exhibited any interest in John, which also frequently happens and almost never with the same individuals who tend towards Sherlock himself. As a result, whole swaths of police employees have been disregarded from consideration as assistants in the rare times official presence is required. He will choose one with interest in himself over John, as John’s attractions to others (or responses to those attracted to him) cannot be predicted, prevented, and oftentimes cannot even be controlled. It is _exhausting_ trying to navigate normal people with their constant need for emotional and physical connections, with just about anyone who totters along. When he finds one who doesn’t seem as obsessed with it all as the rest of them, he treasures it.

 

Jones also happens to work in the economic crime command, and has extensive training in arts and antiques. For the sake of the big reveal, he doesn’t clue anyone in on why this will be helpful, and insists to John that he just “likes” Jones, a statement which led to a raised eyebrow but, by the grace of god, no further inquiry. Even without knowing more than the bare minimum, she agrees to help him. They always agree to help him.

 

They are all standing staring at him now, on the landing of Jabez’s staircase at nearly one in the morning. Jones and Jabez are wearing similar expressions of curiosity, but John only looks mildly annoyed. Opting not to explain anything just yet, Sherlock simply shepherds them into the basement. “We’ll have to hide in here,” he informs them, opening the door on a storage area. John peers into the small room and looks back at Sherlock. “You’re joking, we’ll never all fit.”

 

“It’ll be tight, but we can’t just sit out in the open. We’re trying to avoid detection, you see.”

 

John mumbles something which sounds suspiciously like _smart-arse_ and gestures for Jones and Jabez to enter before him. He follows and Sherlock is the last in, ready to spring out when he hears his quarry. He snaps the light off and settles on the floor beside John, back against the wall. Jabez and Jones are opposite them, Jones closest the door. It is small enough that he cannot stretch his legs out without them being in Jones’ lap. As it is, his knees are nearly touching hers. It’s mildly horrifying but he imagines they will not have long to wait. Everyone is silent for nearly 5 minutes. The size of the room may put him in too close proximity to everyone else but it also means that John is pressed along his side, warm and still, and Sherlock can smell his soap and hear the familiar rhythm of his breathing, and soon he’ll catch some criminals and be very clever. What a pleasant time he’s having.

 

“Will you please tell us why we’re waiting down here.”

 

“Ah, thank you, Inspector Jones, I was beginning to wonder when someone would start talking and entirely ruin our chances of overhearing anyone entering the room.”

 

John stirs and presses his knee slightly into Sherlock’s thigh. “Sherlock, seriously, answer the question.”

 

He heaves a sigh. How is not _obvious_? “You do know what’s next door, don’t you?”

 

“The antiques shop,” Jabez supplies.

 

“Priceless items in that cellar. Good security at the front and back, but none at the bottom.” Feeling that must explain it, Sherlock falls silent again in order to continue listening to John breathing beside him in the dark.

 

After only a few lovely quiet moments, John ruins it. “And?”

 

“Oh, for god’s sake. They’re tunneling through, someone’s in there and someone else is going to be in here. Pass the items over and take them out.” Honestly.

 

“I’m sorry, how did you – “ Jabez begins, but Sherlock really wants to save that part for later, and surreptitiously knocks his fist against the baseboard. At the sound, she falls silent and he feels John tense, stretching his neck as if straining to hear. The silence remains, as if everyone suddenly remembered they were _on a stake-out, for Christ’s sake._

Eight silent minutes elapse before another sound, this one not created as a diversionary _shut up_ tactic. Sherlock springs up and rests a hand on the doorknob, ear against the door to hear more clearly. They must wait until the right moment to catch them in the act. John has also stood and is pressed against Sherlock’s back, and it’s mildly distracting, as he wants to lean back into John’s weight and wants John to rest his hands on his hips, wants John to strain upwards and put his mouth on the nape of Sherlock’s neck and – damn it, _focus_. Sherlock tenses and leans further forward, attempting to communicate that John needs to back off. Thank god John is quite good at reading Sherlock nonverbally. He takes a half step back leaving enough space between their bodies that Sherlock can put all his attention back to listening to the scraping sounds of bricks being moved. Several promising thumps later and Sherlock imagines the goods have been moved into this room, which is enough to make the case.

 

He reaches his free hand back and taps John’s arm, _ready to go_ , and turns the doorknob, swinging the door outward with sufficient force that it cracks into the wall behind. The look of surprise on their faces is almost comical, until the younger, shorter one reacts and pulls a gun from his waistband to level at Sherlock’s chest. “Oy, what are you –“ but his inquiry is cut rather short by John rushing from behind Sherlock, where he may well have been entirely concealed from view, given the delay in the man’s reaction, providing John the crucial few seconds he needs to seize the man’s arm and relieve him of his weapon. Sherlock hears Jabez make an appreciative sound which is troubling but there is not _time for that, Sherlock_. John has the man’s arm behind his back and he is falling to his knees, while his companion looks on helplessly through a hole in the wall, only large enough to pass through boxes.

 

Sherlock approaches the man on his knees and turns to Jabez. “Archie, I presume?” She nods and he is horrified to see there are _tears_ in her eyes. “And Mr. Spaulding, of course,” he nods to the man in the antiques shop.

 

Archie is squirming in John’s grasp. “Who the hell are you?”

 

“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” and he waits for a slight widening of the eyes to signify recognition. It does not come. So much for notoriety.

 

Jones steps forward, saving him the indignity of explaining what a Sherlock Holmes is. “ _I’m_ Inspector Jones. And I’m arresting you on suspicion of burglary.” John releases his arms and allows her to step in and complete her arrest. Sherlock swears at the thump from next door. Obviously he’s going to run, should’ve had that side covered too, _stupid_ – but before he can even finish mentally berating himself, John is tearing up the stairs from the basement. Sherlock dithers for the briefest of moments before following. Spaulding had a head start, but John is quick, if anything he’s quicker than Sherlock remembers – did he take up running, while Sherlock was gone, did he run and imagine Sherlock’s footsteps were ahead? _Focus_. Sherlock is only seconds behind but he can’t seem to overtake John, who has a fistful of the back of Spaulding’s coat and is yanking him backwards, with the (unintended?) effect that Spaulding crashes right into Sherlock and they sprawl to the ground. Sherlock manages to wiggle out from underneath him and plants a knee in his back, but the fight seems to have gone out of Spaulding, who is gasping for breath.

 

“There was really no need for all that,” he huffs. Sherlock presses his knee just a bit harder.

 

“Oh, of course, I’m supposed to just let you go.”

 

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing, mate. It’s a few trinkets, that’s all, we didn’t hurt anybody.”

 

Sherlock thinks of the tears in Jabez’s eyes and is filled with loathing for this lumbering idiot. “You hurt my client. You tricked her, and betrayed her trust.”

 

Spaulding rolls his eyes. “I coulda made three million out of that shop. You think I give a shit about that freak’s _feelings_?”

 

Sherlock only realizes that he has punched Spaulding when he feels John grab his fist. He looks down in some surprise at the blood spurting from the man's nose and stands slowly, shaken. John is still holding his fist and peering at him with concern. Oh, god, John's concern. He's going to have to talk about his feelings now. Unbearable.

 

"John, ring for another officer. Stay here until he arrives. I'll go see how Jones is getting on." Orders are easy, they are good – easy to give and easy for John to follow, and what just happened can wait (what did just happen?), maybe John will forget about it (he forgets _all kinds_ of things, but not this, Sherlock just knows this will be Very Important to John).

 

Sherlock finds that Jones has banished Jabez from the basement, and she is sitting on the sofa staring blankly at her hands. When Sherlock comes in she looks up and he is relieved to see there are no more tears. He nods at her and tries to walk downstairs, because he is simply dying to know what was in that shop Spaulding valued at three million – but she clears her throat to speak and he has to stop. "What happened to your hand?" she asks, oh that's right, covered in blood.

 

"Not mine," he clarifies, and she blanches just a bit. He finds himself wishing he had gotten to punch more. There is something sweet and baffled about Jabez that sticks into him the wrong way, that he can't seem to just let roll off.

 

"So, they made up a job to get me out of the house. That's… that's ridiculous, isn't it, I mean. Who does that?" She giggles a bit and Sherlock smiles back.

 

"It is one of the more elaborate setups I've seen," he allows.

 

"Guess people will do nearly anything for money. Like go for a modeling job that is too perfect to be real without even making sure the company exists." She is angry, he realizes, at herself – angry she let herself be made a target, and oh that's just too unfair.

 

"You had no reason to be suspicious," but she did, really, of course she did, why is he _lying to make her feel better_ that is not – "This isn't on you."

 

"They only picked me because of – well, because of –"

 

"Because of where you live. It's the most convenient to the shop's basement." It's not true, there are three other buildings they might have used, this neighborhood is old, the below-ground works overlapping.

 

"It was so easy for them to trick me! I'm so stupid!" She stands up, fists clenched, and Sherlock is taken aback at the sudden switch from rueful to furious.

 

"Yes, they tricked you. _They_ did. It was a violation of you, _by them_ , and not one you deserved in any way."

 

She is looking over his shoulder now, and Sherlock feels John's eyes on him. Damn it. "Hope you didn't let Spaulding go," he throws out, before beating a hasty retreat to the basement. _God, you are just handing him things to annoy you with._

 

Oh, god, John's following him. Stay and comfort the pretty woman, John, why do you only subvert expectations at the most inconvenient times.

 

"Course I didn't let him go, Jones had already sent for backup, they got there right as you took off."

 

Jones is sifting through the boxes while Archie sits on the floor in handcuffs. Sherlock rushes to see what she's uncovering and forgets about everything but the task at hand until John clears his throat. Sherlock looks up and there are several officers in the room, apparently ready to begin cataloging the evidence that Sherlock is currently investigating. He reluctantly steps back and allows them to begin their work. He realizes Archie and Jones are gone and looks at John questioningly.

 

"She hauled him off already, they weren't going to hang around all night." After a few more moments of silence, John sighs. "You realize it's been nearly an hour?"

 

Ah. He half-shrugs and John laughs. "Come on, you nutter, let's go home."

 

This entire night was a disaster, nothing went as he imagined it, and he hasn't even gotten to explain how he solved it. But John has said, home, like it's his home too, again (still), and Sherlock cannot suppress his smile, the real one that he can't make work right no matter how hard he tries, the one that just spreads until he looks like an idiot. John's answering grin makes Sherlock's stomach warm, and as they both make for the stairwell at the same moment, John gestures Sherlock ahead with a hand on the small of his back, and Sherlock is still burning with the need to explain it, to dazzle John, but John sneaks his hand from the small of Sherlock's back to rest on the side of his waist as they climb the stairs, and his breathing is ragged, and everything else is driven out of Sherlock's mind but _home, John, hand, warm, second chance second chance second chance_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always thank you for reading. also as always i hope the next chapter doesn't take me as long. and the next chapter might result in a bump to explicit rating, just fyi


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers for individuals who are sex-repulsed, experience shame over arousal or orgasm, and might be upset by discussion of arousal/lack thereof and orgasm/lack thereof (this was a difficult chapter for me to write so for some it may be difficult to read) - for the purposes of tagging i used asexuality and demisexuality though those are broad terms for lots of things, and sherlock as depicted here doesn't really know where he fits. please note rating change to explicit, just to be on the cautious side of things, though i think a mature might still cover it.  
> -

 

As they leave the crime scene, Sherlock catches a glimpse of John's face when he gets into the cab and sighs. "Oh, god, you're going to make me talk about my feelings, aren't you?"

John takes a deep breath and braces himself. Sherlock is exceedingly prickly for having just solved a case, and John can't begin to guess at what's percolating in that head of his. He opts not to answer the question. "You'll have to go in tomorrow morning and give a statement for Jones. Probably help sort out some things."

Sherlock nods and pulls out his phone. He scrolls through his email without any real interest, mainly just trying to avoid eye contact. He doesn't want John to think, wishes they could close their eyes and instantly be home, wants to hold on to the feeling of working with John, solving the case, John touching him and how it made him want to keep being touched. The times before, they weren't like that, what's different, why is his skin so sensitive and his heart beating a little too fast, why is he leaning towards John instead of sitting upright, why is he looking away from his phone to stare at John's hand, why is he willing John's hand to land somewhere near him, god, on him.

John, for his part, is seemingly unaware of anything amiss, and continues to stare blankly out the cab window until Baker Street comes into view. Sherlock is filled with disappointment and seized with a sudden fear that John will drop him off and continue to his own flat. Sherlock grabs John's hand before he realizes what he's doing. He drops it immediately.

John climbs out of the cab and pays while Sherlock steps out gingerly, feeling somewhat as if his feet on the pavement might shatter.

They stand in awkward silence inside the flat. Sherlock takes his coat off and hangs it up, strips his scarf, taking his time simply so he has something to do with his hands. He finally turns to discover that John is openly staring at him.

 "Oh for god's sake. What is wrong with you?!"

 John laughs. "Wrong with me? You're the one acting so…" and perhaps he wants to say weird, and thinks it would hurt Sherlock's feelings, which is absurd.

 "I'm not acting any particular way."

 "You haven't even told me how you figured it out."

 "That's what you want to talk about? How I solved it?"

 "That is what we tend to talk about, afterwards. You didn't get a big moment, it went a little off your script, I think." John steps closer, close enough that Sherlock could touch him. He is looking at Sherlock with unveiled desire, and Sherlock's throat goes dry. He tries to respond and his voice fails on its first attempt. He swallows and tries again.

 "It was the dust. From the bricks."

 John nods, although he clearly doesn't understand, and gently takes Sherlock's hand within both of his. He raises it and inspects the knuckles, which are reddened from where they met Mr. Spaulding's repugnant nose. The skin hadn't broken, so there is nothing for John to do, but he frets. "We ought to put ice on this." Sherlock shakes his head, how inconvenient, and John shrugs a little, as if he knew it was a long shot. He continues to hold the hand and looks up, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "What happened?"

 Sherlock swallows again. He is distracted by the gentleness of John's touch and his voice, pitched low for how close they are and unbearably intimate. "I lost my temper. Won't happen again."

 "Yes, it probably will."

 Sherlock shrugs and looks away. "I didn't like him much."

 John chuckles. He brings Sherlock's knuckles to his lips and presses a quick kiss there. "All better."

 Sherlock smiles and John gently releases his hand, not moving closer nor farther away. If this is supposed to be a cue, it's one Sherlock cannot read. It could mean so many different things that there is no way of knowing which it does but to test, and to test and be wrong could be disastrous. John eventually seems to realize that Sherlock has no plans to move either, and backs away. "We should get some sleep. Mind if I kip on the sofa?"

 Damn it. Wrong. Sherlock doesn't respond, makes a noncommittal humming noise which John takes as assent. He disappears into the loo for several minutes, then stops at the linen cupboard and retrieves a blanket, settles on the sofa and toes his shoes off.  Sherlock is still standing where John left him. John leans back against the sofa and gives Sherlock an appraising look. The lights are down and Sherlock does not want to go to his room, alone. His hand tingles, most likely from the bruise he's developing, but just possibly from its remembrance of John's delicate kiss. Sentimental waffle.

 John's voice floats to him, husky, a voice reserved for the hours between midnight and sunrise, a voice most people aren't lucky enough to hear, but with more heat in it than Sherlock's heard before. "Come here."

 Sherlock walks closer. "I'm not sure I can sleep. Can I sit out here with you?"

 John reaches up and grabs Sherlock's arm, yanking him down. Sherlock resists instinctively and winds up rather inelegantly positioned half on the sofa and half on John's lap. It's not such a bad position, actually. John's hands are running slightly over Sherlock's back and into the hair at the back of his head, but it more medical in nature than sensual. "You took a nice tumble earlier, with that oaf on top of you. Any pain?"

Sherlock does not trust his voice, so he shakes his head minutely. This is wonderful, but he can tell from John's breathing and the way he shifts slightly, pulling his lower body back, that John is aroused or getting that way, and this complicates things.

 "You liked Jabez. You were upset over what they did to her."

 Sherlock scoffs. It hardly matters. "She was a client. Irrelevant. But I don't like to see people taken advantage of simply because they are different. They were weak men to exploit that."

 "Oh of course, I'd forgotten you take such a hard line against exploitation and manipulation. Unless it's to your benefit, apparently."

 "I always have a good reason," Sherlock protests. He is not indiscriminately cruel.

 John does not respond to that, and he has withdrawn his touch.

 "Were you manipulating me tonight?"

 Sherlock has to think back. It's extremely likely, in any given period of time, that he is manipulating John, or anyone else nearby. Though he wouldn't necessarily term it all manipulation. It's just easy, if you know how someone thinks and acts, to create a set of circumstances which will conclude in your favor. The person has the ability at any point to act differently. He can't be held responsible for other people's predictability, that's just unfair.

 "I don't think I was," he finally responds. There was no conscious attempt.

 "When you were talking to Jabez. You were… kind. It was good. That wasn't for me?"

 "No. In fact, I rather wish you hadn't heard it."

 "Hadn't heard you being human. You _would_ wish that. It's just like you to have no problem being a bastard, and be ashamed of being decent."

 Sherlock slides off John's lap, remaining beside him and touching, but able to look fully at his face. He is angry, and Sherlock cannot fathom why.

 "And it's just like you to expect me to miraculously be a different person than the one you've known for years. Yes, I'm a bastard. In fact, I'm the biggest arsehole anyone could have the misfortune of knowing. But I am capable of empathy."

 "I know that, Sherlock. I do know that."

 "Then why are you angry with me?"

 John blows air out through his mouth and clenches his left hand where it rests on his knee, and Sherlock knows.

 "God, John. How the world is that relevant right now?" He stands. "What even made you think of it?"

 "See, that question assumes that there's a time that I'm _not_ thinking of it."

 "You aren't always angry."

 "I'm not angry now!" John seems to hear himself and winces. "Pretend I said that without shouting."

 But the shouting is useful. Shouting John can be talked to, or reasoned with. It's silent John that is the trouble.

 "What I mean is, something about this night was different, it's made you –"

 "Both of us."

 "Fine, both of us, it's made us act differently, and I cannot figure out why." This is only partially true, but if he acts like he doesn't know, John will help. Sherlock sits back down and John's hand automatically rests on his back.

 "It was nice to see you at work. It was good to be a team again. I missed that. Which leads to me thinking why I had to miss that, which leads me to thinking of how you are a massive twat." John's voice is quiet and intimate again, and it aches.

 "I don't know what I can possibly do, John. Would you like an apology written in blood?"

 He winces. "No more blood." His hand on Sherlock's back is stroking up and down, and dipping rather lower than Sherlock thinks is an ordinary sort of touch between friends. If back-stroking is ever an ordinary touch between friends. Sherlock has almost nothing he would categorize as ordinary touch.

 Oh, to hell with it, he thinks. "I do have other bodily fluids. You're welcome to take your pick."

 John groans and pushes the back-stroking hand down, finding where Sherlock's shirt is tucked into his trousers, and burrowing underneath it for Sherlock's bare skin. Sherlock can't help the tiny shiver this creates, which causes John to drop his head against the back of the sofa and swallow hard. Sherlock watches the motion of John's throat and thinks he'd like to lick, right there. So he does.

 "No, Sherlock, we can't – we talked about this, and how massively fucked up it is, yes?"

 Sherlock swings a leg over John, straddling him and bending down in order to continue inventing activities to do with John's throat, moving onto his neck, utterly failing to contain himself and traveling towards the collarbone which Sherlock has to shove at the neck of John's shirt to access. John pushes him back slightly and Sherlock frowns, but John is only trying to remove his shirt, which delights Sherlock, who vaguely recalls an earlier encounter in which he did not find John's torso that interesting. He's made so many mistakes.

 "Can we go to bed?" Sherlock asks, quietly, afraid of the answer either way. John tightens his grip around Sherlock's waist and stands with one powerful thrust of his legs, thrilling Sherlock in a way he wasn't aware he _could_ be thrilled. Sherlock locks his legs around John's hips, and he is much too tall for this to be graceful, but they have only a short way to shuffle and John deposits Sherlock in a heap onto his bed. John snogs him as if life depends on it, and Sherlock is pleasantly hazy. His hands are sort of locked onto John's sides, which probably isn't very pleasurable, but he can't think when John is kissing him. He wants to be able to think, so he keeps his mouth closed as John continues kissing, and the message is received, but as John pulls back Sherlock can see how hard he is through his trousers and Sherlock is terribly aware of his own lack of tumescence – he is aroused, god, he must be, if this isn't arousal _then what is_ , but his body will not cooperate, damn it, damn this. John is going to be disappointed when he notices, which – given the look on his face, he just has.

 "Sure this is all right?"

 Sherlock means to nod, or gasp yes, or just pull John down on top of him and demand that he do something about the terrible ache in Sherlock's lower abdomen, and the sluggish quality of his blood through his veins, to ask him to fix it so his body will match his mind for once in his life, wants to ignore all of this completely and bring John to orgasm with his mouth, how wonderful that might be, but instead he shakes his head and then covers his face with hands that are suddenly shaking.

 "Hey, Sherlock." John's voice is full of concern, and it grates against Sherlock's exposed nerves. He lowers his hands and snaps.

 "Just don't, John. There's no need. I'm perfectly fine." He tries reaching for John's belt buckle, to get this over with, why did he ever think he was capable of receiving pleasure? "This is supposed to be for you, anyway," he points out. John just scoots farther away, out of Sherlock's reach, and stares at him with his forehead rumpled, and Sherlock despairs at the kick his heart gives at the sight. John watches him for a few long moments, and Sherlock knows what arouses John, knows that Sherlock's neck is appealing to him, so he rests his head back on the pillows, elongating his neck gracefully, and licks his lips, he knows John watches his mouth, has probably imagined his mouth in hundreds of lewd scenarios (are there hundreds? Seems unlikely, but John has much more experience at this). He will simply wear down John's resistance by being beautiful, and silent.

 Sherlock unbuttons his shirt and lets the sides fall apart, exposing a line of torso that John's gaze sharpens on greedily. He finally leans forward and places his hand on Sherlock's chest, between his pectorals, and slides it down to his navel. Sherlock shivers, for show, there is nothing remarkable about the sensation beyond the novelty of John's skin on his. John makes a pained sound and reaches down to adjust himself in his jeans, and Sherlock takes advantage to reach again for John's belt.

 "Sherlock, if you don’t like this –"

 "Oh, shut up, John. Of course I like it, I'm offering." He doesn't imagine it will work, but apparently the proximity of Sherlock's fingers to John's penis enhances John's malleability significantly.

 Sherlock has divested John of jeans and pants and is trying to quickly work out the optimal angle to perform fellatio when John catches him by surprise and lays down on top of Sherlock, pushing his hips against Sherlock's, nudging his erect penis against Sherlock's flaccid one, still behind two layers of cloth. John's supporting himself on his arms, without any real weight on Sherlock, and the definition this shows in his muscles is really very compelling, and a fine sheen of sweat has started forming simply all over John's body. Sherlock is faintly repulsed by the concept of the sweat, but in practice he supposes it isn't so bad. The friction of John nudging against him is becoming distracting and mostly unpleasant, so he reaches up to hold John's face in his hands, meets his eyes, and subtly shakes his head. John sits up and gives him the confused look again.

 "Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm going to need you to tell me what is okay and what isn't okay, here."

 "I don't – I don't really know, John." Admitting that is difficult, because he doesn't want John's reaction – he doesn't want disbelief, or pity, or anger, or disgust, or a sudden decisive termination of activities. "I've done – some of this. But I've never –" god, why should this be so difficult, why can't John just see? " – never really, enjoyed it. I suppose. I find it – unnecessary, mostly, or overwhelming, and unsatisfying, and really a lot of bother for not much benefit."

 John rolls, taking Sherlock halfway over so they are facing each other, lying on their sides. "Have you enjoyed what we've done so far? Not the other times. Just today."

 It is ridiculous that he should feel bashful, that he should want to duck his head so John cannot see his face. He feels his cheeks burn as he quickly nods. John makes a noise like a stifled laugh and Sherlock's eyes snap up to meet his in indignation, but he sees such fondness around John's eyes that he suddenly hopes it means something else: perhaps John feels about Sherlock's blushing cheeks as Sherlock does about the crinkle of confusion between John's brows.  He mustn't think that way. This is John's apology, written in not-exactly-blood, and it does not mean he suddenly loves him again.

Sherlock rests a hand on John's chest and runs it down, just as John had done to him, only he does not stop until he has John's penis in his hand, but he proves to have as much difficulty with this as the first time. John places his own hand over Sherlock's and he relaxes, thinking he will just follow John's lead again, but John stills his hand and pulls it away. "Just you," he says, lightly and quietly, but it clangs in Sherlock's head and terrifies him.

 "John, I – I don't think I can –"

 "Oh, I think you _can_. My only question is, do you _want_?" John cups Sherlock's face and runs a thumb across his lips. Sherlock wants to whine, wants to take John's thumb in his mouth, wants to slide down John's body and swallow him whole, make him keen and cry out and tug Sherlock's hair. Wants to do anything but have John touch him and be disappointed. But what if he won't be, oh, John, touch, yes.

 He whispers, "I want you to touch me, I like it when you touch me."  

 John undoes the clasp of Sherlock's trousers and pushes them down his hips, moving off the bed to pull them down his legs. In deference to Sherlock's fastidiousness about his wardrobe, he drapes them over the back of the chair. Sherlock smiles, and John joins him back on the bed, kneeling between his legs and bending to lift the waistband of Sherlock's boxer-briefs and peek underneath. John looks back up with a waggle of eyebrows that makes Sherlock snort ridiculously, and it becomes so much easier then. Sherlock lifts his hips and John's eyes squeeze shut and his breath punches out of him, and Sherlock is confused until he realizes what it must look like from John's vantage point, his feet planted flat on the bed, hips thrusting upward, John between his legs, and oh, oh that's an interesting thought after all isn't it. He feels his body respond and wants to shout in triumph. It's never been impossible, just very very difficult, and he imagines even under this exact set of circumstances but on a different day, he would be disgusted and annoyed. For the moment, he decides to trust John with this, decides he might even like it, early signs certainly indicate the possibility, and if not then at least that will settle the matter for the rest of his life.

 John climbs back up to lie next to Sherlock and rests one small hand lightly on the back of his neck, moving his thumb up and down into the curls at the base of Sherlock's skull, making little circles there. His other hand finds Sherlock, who is now just over halfway hard, and strokes and strokes, long pulls and short ones, fast and slow, touching everywhere, and he drops kisses on Sherlock's collarbones and shoulders and cheekbones, and Sherlock cannot breathe, it is so much it is almost too much but when he tenses John eases, then comes back softer and less until they have found the perfect balance and Sherlock enjoys the feelings, all of them, and is only a little bit scared for what's going to happen next. John stops touching everywhere but his penis, one thumb lightly swiping the head, and Sherlock feels as if he is performing a titration and each brush of skin and kiss and stroke was a drop of reagent leading to this, this slight touch which is the endpoint of the reaction; Sherlock feels his color change.

 He wants to explain that feeling to John, but it’s ludicrous, isn't it, he’ll sound like a complete tit. He can't just say things like that or John will know, even John, as dense as he is, even though he somehow doesn't know already, he will know. John has moved his hands to bracket Sherlock’s hips and is gently moving his thumbs over the skin there, and Sherlock can’t hold in a sigh, at which John leans in and kisses Sherlock right underneath his ear, in the sweat that has dripped from his hair, and Sherlock is repulsed on John’s behalf, but it feels so nice. It doesn't seem to bother John. Sherlock imagines kissing John’s sweat, and doesn’t mind the thought, but he does not actually attempt to do so. Instead he focuses on selecting words and stringing them together, to show John he understands that this was a transaction, that they have resumed their previous agreement. He tries to make his face blank.

 "How far does that go towards forgiveness, then?" Sherlock wishes he could manage to put it together as one cool, composed sentence but is forced to accept that long moments are passing between words, what may well be entire minutes lost to his gasping breaths, and under the circumstances nothing at all is cool, let alone composed.

 When he reaches the end of the statement, John stops the fingers that are stroking Sherlock's hips and pulls his mouth away from Sherlock's neck, which brings a rush of cool air to the damp skin and makes him shiver. John is shaking his head and starting to draw away and Sherlock thinks about his words and panics, tightens his fingers around John's biceps where they have been resting for possibly hours, or, Sherlock can just see the clock on the desk behind John's head, oh. It’s only been 44 minutes since they got out of the cab. His mind cannot accommodate this fact, he feels as if this has taken hours, days, years.

 He sees now his statement was a mistake, and he tries to coax John into kissing him again, pressing lips to John's and drawing back slowly, hoping John will follow. Fighting to ignore the thing that happens inside him when John does not.

 "Oh, god. Sherlock."  

 John continues speaking, but Sherlock is not listening. His body feels strange, skin sort of buzzing and his tongue thick inside his mouth. He knows it is the wash of hormones in his blood post-orgasm, knows this and yet cannot fight against it. His awareness is nearly entirely focused on watching John's eyelashes. Up, still, down, down, John is squeezing his eyes which he does when he doesn't know what to say. He should say something clever to make John laugh, up again and still, do something, down again. Sherlock has noticed, before, how fine and blond those eyelashes are, how they catch the light and make John's eyes lighter but sometimes darker and it's unaccountable which ought to be frustrating or even intriguing, something to keep track of, but he always forgets, but now noticing the color and the light is not enough and suddenly he wants to know, has to know, how John's eyelashes feel and he cannot understand what his body is doing, what his mind is doing, but he is leaning into John and rubbing their cheeks together and waiting for John to blink, and sighing when the quick flick of his eyelid causes the eyelashes to brush his skin. John had asked a question, hadn't he? Focus, focus, but just feeling them slightly brush his cheek is not enough, from this close they are so fine, but there are so many, Sherlock is certain he does not have that many eyelashes, especially on the bottom, where did those all come from, and Sherlock thinks of the texture of the hair on John's head, coarse and soft in different places, and he thinks of setting his mouth on it but the eyelashes are closer, so he waits for John's eyes to flick closed again and gently presses his mouth to John's eye, and John's eyelid twitches which moves the lashes gently against Sherlock's lips and he is overcome, and then all at once suddenly horribly aware of what he is doing and that there is no hiding at all what it means, he is rubbing his face against John's face with no dignity left at all, he spilled his semen onto John's skin and cried out and his face contorted and it is humiliating, unbearable, that he behaved that way.

 He pulls back, and back further still, until there is no part of him touching any part of John, and despite being naked, he wants to run away, because he can't even imagine the look on John's face, the anger or confusion or pity or whatever it will be, because whatever it will be will be wrong.

 He leaps out of bed, taking the sheet with him and wrapping it hastily around himself as he flees. He gets as far as the bottom of the stairs before he is soundly grabbed round the waist and hauled backward. John nearly gets him up to the landing without Sherlock's feet doing more than dragging. It is very undignified, but it also feels like John is hauling him back from a ledge, and the symbolism is nice. Sherlock does finally stand on his own but still resolutely faces away from John, who sighs softly and turns his grasp on Sherlock's waist softer, somehow, if not looser. Sherlock looks down at John's hands, fingers interlocked just above his navel, and this is the position John would take if Sherlock were choking on something, and that symbolism too is nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the bit about blood and other bodily fluids is from textsfromjohnandsherlock  
> obviously some dialogue right from the show  
> sherlock's reaction to john's eyelashes was inspired by well, john's eyelashes, but also by a comment by PrettyArbitrary
> 
> as always thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize very much for the amount of time it's taken for this update. Thank you so much for sticking with me - well, with them <3

Sherlock has never quite mastered the passage of time. Hours disappear and he cannot account for them, days fly by, weeks, and he is unaware of it, working to his own clock, because it has simply never mattered. He knows that the more time he allows to pass in this manner, the more damage he is doing to a fragile thing, but he cannot seem to control the days that slip away while he's thinking of the right thing to say. This is why, he reflects, you cannot trust Sherlock Holmes with fragile things.

It's nearly unimaginable that there is someone even worse at this than he is, but imagination becomes unnecessary where there is John Watson. Sherlock is very nearly awed by the mastery John displays in Not Talking About It. There are attempts, stops and starts, breaths gathered in preparation, and then, nothing. John opening and closing his fist, John sliding his eyes away every time Sherlock tries to look into them, John leaving and leaving and leaving, every day. And so Sherlock begins to plan.

\---

"There must be something."

"I find myself wondering what ulterior motive you have. Ordinarily I have to threaten you, and here you are offering."

"I need a case."

"Call Inspector Lestrade."

"I need a really, really good case."

Mycroft heaves a put-upon sigh. Sherlock grits his teeth. That's a Mycroft digging-in-his-heels sound, and though Sherlock is loath to admit it, he desperately needs his brother's help. "It's a matter of… distraction," he says, injecting an appropriate amount of shame and praying Mycroft will take the bait. He straightens his spine ever so slightly and Sherlock knows it worked. Mycroft can never resist playing the savior of his poor misguided little brother.

"We recently received information on a terror threat."

Sherlock tries not to groan aloud. "There is always a terror threat, that's what terrorists _do_. Must you bore me even further?"

"An agent gave his life for this information."

"Perhaps he shouldn't have done."

"Do you want the case or not?"

It sounds dreadful, Sherlock finds nothing interesting about terrorism. But it will appeal to John, with his military history and painfully dull patriotism.

"Fine. Email me the details."

 

\---

 

He directs the cab to John's flat and has half worked it before he even arrives. John answers at first knock. "John. I need maps. Underground maps, all of them." He notices that John is holding a wooly hat with baubles on it. Sherlock blinks at it. "Not quite your style."

"Client accidentally left it behind."

"What was a client doing here?"

"I wasn't here, Sherlock. I was at Baker Street. Where you were supposed to be. Remember?"

He doesn't. "What did he want? The client?"

"He was in a right state about trains."

Coincidence? No, the universe is rarely so lazy.

"Well, we can't have that hat hanging about, it smells awful. Let's get it back to him."

 

\---

 

The man says he "likes trains" which is the most outrageous understatement Sherlock has ever encountered. When he mentions a girlfriend, Sherlock scoffs and then glances at John, expecting chastisement. But John seems barely present. He misses an aside comment that Sherlock makes, and gazes around the man's flat idly. Lord Moran disappearing from a train carriage is a pretty problem, and yet he cannot focus on it. "So, what do you think? How can a man disappear into thin air?"

John just purses his lips and shrugs half-heartedly. Sherlock sighs. "Okay, I forgot about something important, obviously. I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Sherlock. I shouldn't have expected –" He clears his throat. "I better get those maps. I'll meet you back at your flat."

Sherlock stands for a moment gazing after John's retreating form. He forgets things all the time, John's never cared this much before. Does remembering appointments matter more after you've ejaculated in each other's presence? He pushes this question to the middle of his mind. He needs to find Lord Moran. Information on a terror threat, a known double agent disappearing in the underground – the very underground Sherlock suspects is the target for the terror strike. Suspect, obvious. Motive, obvious. The only really intriguing bit: how?

He has been puzzling it over for some time when John shows up. He deposits an armful of papers – old underground maps, and a flash drive – newer ones.

"Ah. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

It's painful, this sudden formality. He's never felt this awkward around John, and it's horrible. All he wants is for John to settle into his chair, to relax and read a book, to provide a perfect amount of background noise for Sherlock's brain while he works this out. But John has not taken off his coat and his posture is anything but relaxed.

"Well, I think I'll –"

"-John, I – I would prefer you stay."

John looks briefly – surprised? Surely not. "You sure?"

Sherlock turns to face him fully and steps closer. "John. I always prefer that you stay. Is that not clear?"

"Not really."

How can he not see? John is stupid, but for god's sake, Sherlock has died for him, and lived for him, and been helpless at his hand. He has acted like a perfectly ridiculous sentimental fool for John. _And then you panicked and tried to run away_.

"Well." He clears his throat. It's never been so difficult to talk to John, but this is a minefield. One wrong step and … "I'm telling you, John. I prefer that you stay. I need you to stay. We're trying to catch a terrorist, after all."

"I'm meant to just pretend I'm not bothered by you standing me up? I'm meant to be fine just being your helpmate again, with you continuing to show no regard for my –"

"Your what, John? Your feelings? I can't possibly be bothered with that at the moment." It's absolutely untrue, of course. He is always bothered about John's feelings.

John clenches his fist, and his jaw, and his entire bloody self. Sherlock just stares at him until he finally sighs and sits in his chair. He leaves on his coat. It is not ideal, but it will do. Sherlock turns back to begin sifting through the maps John has brought. The train man was completely correct, there is nowhere that carriage could have gone. Further underground, perhaps? Maybe they tunneled? The only way to know for sure is –

"John, we need to go out."

"Sherlock, it's Bonfire Night, it's mad out there."

"Bonfire n- oh of course. Of course. Oh, honestly. 'Gunpowder treason and plot.' I think I might actually be offended by the lack of imagination."

John looks amused. "Surprised you remember that."

"I'd quite like to forget, but it comes round every year, I can't get it unstuck." He won't admit that the only reason he remembers it is multiple viewings of the film with the chap from the elf movie. It was frequently on in hotel rooms.

"Help me with these, something that doesn't fit – we haven't the time to walk the entire thing, we need to narrow it down."

Sherlock flips between the old maps and the newer, increasingly frustrated. Why has he always taken cabs, he doesn't know the Underground well enough –

"Sherlock. This one. On this map and none of the others – Sumatra Road."

Sherlock pulls out his phone and quickly googles it – "Looks like they didn't finish it, legal trouble. Exists underground but not on the surface. Oh, that's good." It might be very unimaginative of terrorists to attempt to blow up Parliament on Guy Fawkes Day, but this was a neat bit of planning. He grins and glances at John, who grins back. His heart knocks against his ribs in an unreasonable fashion and he resists the overwhelming urge to kiss John on the forehead in triumph. "Let's go."

He strides out, John right behind, and is very briefly elated until his phone pings with an incoming call from his brother. He gestures to John to get a cab. John mutters about the inanity of taking a cab to the tube, but waves one down and they get in. Sherlock finally answers the phone.

 "What is it, I'm busy."

"No, you're not. We've arrested Lord Moran, and have the device he was planning to use to set off the explosives."

Sherlock's heart starts to sink. "There's still the bomb. Partners?"

"I think it unlikely."

"Well, I'll take care of finding the bomb, better safe than sorry and all that."

"As that is certainly not a phrase you've ever sincerely uttered, I wonder what your real motivation is." There is a pause and Sherlock grits his teeth. "Ah, you're on a nighttime adventure with your friend. How very…"

Sherlock hangs up and thinks quickly. Mycroft is nearly always right, there's hardly a chance the bomb will go off without Moran, and he's seen nothing in his surveillance that indicates anyone else is working on this. But this was going to be such a great moment – a chance to really dazzle John, is it so much to ask? Dazzling him won't be enough, this time. He needs to make him –

Oh. _Yes_.

"Is it off, then?" The cab has arrived at Westminster station.

"No, of course not, they've only got one of the men, seems like he's saying there are other devices. We don't have long, though," he checks his watch exaggeratedly and hopes John won't call the obvious bluff that there's no way Moran would be giving up this information, how long will it take "—19 minutes, looks like."

"Are you bloody joking, 19 minutes to find – what exactly, we don't even know what we're looking for!"

"Oh, of course we do." It isn't until he's actually saying the words he realizes they are true – he flicks his eyes shut for a moment to replay the video and, yes, damn, it was staring him right in the face the whole time! "Moran didn't disappear on his own, he took an entire train carriage with him. Obviously the driver was involved, they stopped and disconnected it … somewhere. Shouldn't be overly difficult to find an entire train carriage."

"In the entire bloody Underground."

"Only the area close enough to blow up Parliament." Ah, a service entrance, just the thing. Sherlock steps aside and looks purposeful as he picks the lock – no one is giving them a second glance but John's eyes are darting around nervously.

"Can you keep your voice down? Talking about blowing up Parliament while breaking into the Underground."

The lock opens and Sherlock slides through, John close behind. It's odd, how quiet it is here, fantastically dark. Very atmospheric. Sherlock understands the importance of atmosphere. Nothing but torchlight. Sherlock jumps down onto the track and plays cool when John reminds him that it's live – he'd forgotten, actually.

John jumps down after him and they walk for nearly 10 minutes in silence, until John sucks in a breath and sweeps his torchlight upward. "Demolition charges."

"We must be close."

They round a corner and yes, there is it. A dark and empty train carriage. And 8 and a half minutes to spare. They climb aboard and John looks around but doesn't see the wires. "John, look." He lifts the seat cushions to display the packed explosives. A slight shiver goes down Sherlock's spine. He is actually slightly grateful that this case was solved by someone else. The panel to the service hatch is loose beneath his foot and he lifts it to reveal, ah yes, the detonator. Of course, without Moran to activate it, it will stay dark and there will be no imminent danger.

Of course, John doesn't know that. And it's the imminent danger he needs. The only time they've ever been able to be honest with one another – mostly by being honest with themselves. About to get blown up, or shot, or both. About to jump off a building. Recently having had jumped off a building.

John is shouting at him about how he should've called the police. He looks up. "Go, John." _Sherlock run!_ "There's plenty of time to get away. Go." But Sherlock hadn't run.

And neither did John. That was nearly enough.

"We’ve got to figure this out, Sherlock, people are going to die!"

"Well, what about you? Doesn't the Army teach things like this?"

"I was a doctor, Sherlock, I didn't defuse bloody bombs!"

"You were a soldier, you're so fond of saying, isn't it sort of standard soldier stuff?"

"Oh my god, Sherlock, no, it's highly specialized – oh, god, we're going to die aren't we?" He looks down at his shoes and pushes his breath out hard and fast. Managing, but terrified. Sherlock should stop this, he should tell him the truth. John looks up suddenly, inspired. "Use your mind palace! You've got everything else in there!"

"I don't have anything on defusing bombs, John, I assure you."

"You'll figure it out, you always do! Come on, Sherlock, think."

John's faith in him is astonishing. And so very, very wrong.

Sherlock drops to his knees to pretend to examine the detonator. He listens to John's harsh breathing and feels the weight of his gaze, of his trust, of his fear. He sees himself as John sees him, capable of defusing a bomb with no experience in 4 minutes. He can't help but feel it might not be so bad to die this way. John didn't run. He feels tears prick the corners of his eyes and doesn't try to stop them, they'll probably help, because he realizes suddenly that this is possibly the worst decision he's ever made.

"John, I…" he looks up from his knees, a supplicant for John's mercy. He draws a shaking breath. "I lied to you. This is all – we're not in any danger."

John stares at him. Blinks hard. "This is a trick. You're trying to make me stop being scared."

Sherlock bursts into laughter. The astonishing reality of John. "God, John. You're unbelievable. Does that sound at all like me?"

John steps closer and watches Sherlock warily. "You're not… Jesus, you're serious. What –"

"Mycroft got Moran, and the remote detonator. This bomb isn't going off. I just wanted – if you thought – you might –" he is laughing and still crying, and cannot control himself at all. He slides toward John on his knees and begs, hands beneath his chin _begs_. "I need you to forgive me, I need you to say it, John."

"So you dragged me here and made me think I was about to die?"

"It was going to be very impressive."

"Is that supposed to be a defense?"

"You only like me when I'm impressive! It would've worked, you would've been awed that I saved us, and you would've forgiven me and told me you –" He has lost control but he manages to bite that bit back. He swallows and tries again. "It seemed like my best option."

"For Christ's sake. You could've…" John goes still. "But you have been asking. You've been asking since the day you got back." He looks slightly sick. John lowers himself to his knees in front of Sherlock and takes his hands. "I'm going to kill you, you absolute cock. This isn't how you do this. I mean it's very clever. But it’s also. Very cruel. Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what is wrong with you?"

"Mycroft has a file."

John chuckles and Sherlock gulps it down, pushes his forehead against John's and tries to take slow breaths, but they strongly resemble gasps.

"This is not the way, Sherlock."

"I know that _now_!"

"No, I mean… I'm not saying anything this way."

Sherlock's stomach feels like ice. His heart is frozen in his chest. God when you get it wrong you really get it wrong. Make a joke make a joke make a joke. "Then what do we do?" That's not a joke, that's not even remotely funny.

 John smiles gently and runs his hands up to grip Sherlock's upper arms. "We go home. And talk about this _not_ surrounded by explosives."

 "Surrounded by explosives is the only way you'd ever talk about this, John. It is a dangerous situation and you are… abnormally attracted to dangerous situations."

 "I'm not saying you're wrong. Wish I could but…" He shrugs, does the little half-smile that Sherlock keeps on prominent display in his mind palace. "Maybe we can do better." Sherlock drops his face into John's shoulder, the feel of John's arms going around his back releasing something unfamiliar within him.

 From a distance he hears footsteps, many of them, running. "We'd probably better get up before they see," Sherlock says, thinking of the police bursting in on them, John holding Sherlock to his chest. Very compromising. A bit of him wants John to say it doesn't matter, and keep clutching him, but his arms drop and he pulls back, pushing to his feet in a crouch and wiping Sherlock's tear-streaked face with a sleeve. Sherlock feels like a child who's thrown a tantrum over dropping his lolly. He refuses John's assistance and jumps up to standing just as an officer's torchlight shines through the window.

 "Hands up! Hands where we can see them!"

 "Oh for god's sake, we're the ones who found the bloody thing," Sherlock calls out. There is muffled whispering and a repeated call to keep their hands up.

 John sighs. "And here I thought we'd have nothing on tonight." They catch each other's eyes and burst into laughter, followed by the sound of 20 uniformed officers drawing their weapons. This only makes them laugh harder.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorter chapter this time around. as always apologies for the length of time between updates and gratitude for you to sticking with their story

Things are quiet and strange when they return to Baker Street. Somewhere between the train carriage and the police station and the cab and home, the urgency of the discussion has faded. John heads for the kitchen and Sherlock stands beside the window, contemplates taking up the violin but decides against it – it's not a communication method John has ever understood.

Sherlock is aware of John moving around behind him, but he trusts John is not leaving. He takes in the clinking of glass and the soft shush of John sliding his shoes off. He closes his eyes to keep it, John at home. A tap on his elbow and John presents him with a tumbler with two fingers of scotch. John has given himself a rather larger helping.

"Shouldn't we keep clear heads?"

"You can if you like, but that's really not an option for me at this point." It is silent between them for some time, and John eventually sighs and settles into his chair.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry I frightened you."

"Understating it a bit."

"Yes, I know, it was about the worst thing I could've done. I do know that. But in my own defense I thought it would be useful. And if not useful, perhaps funny."

John shrugs a bit. It's not as if he can refute this point, they had continued bursting into random peals of laughter even at the station, until an officer had threatened to jab John in the stomach with her baton.

"This is my own fault. I've been so adamant about not forgiving you, even after you've made it fairly explicitly clear how badly you want me to. Of course you'd consider desperate measures."

Hearing John take the blame for Sherlock's wrongness is nearly too much. He swallows and tries to be blasé. "It's well established that I am not suited to this sort of thing. You can't be blamed."

"That's bollocks, and you know it, and what's more, _I_ know it." John takes a deep breath and knocks back the remainder of his scotch. "I keep acting like you're something that just happened to me. But I chose you, Sherlock. Every time, I chose you."

The weight in John's voice makes Sherlock's breath come harder.

"Only because you're addicted to the type of lifestyle which I handily provide. It's nothing to do with me, really. You could meet a nice woman who is also, I don't know, an assassin or something, with adequately developed communication skills who wouldn't have to trap you in a train carriage and make you think your death was imminent in an attempt to trick you into –" Sherlock stops short and John makes a frustrated sound and stands, comes within arm's reach but does not touch.

"Say it, Sherlock. We can't – we've got to stop doing this. Both of us, believe me, I'm just as – you know, I'm actually guiltier of it. I'm letting you bear the responsibility but – when have I ever made you think you could talk to me about things like this?"

"Please, John, everyone knows you're the one who's good at 'things like this' –"

John sets his empty glass down and spreads his hands wide. "No. If you stop and think about it, Sherlock –"

He does. He thinks of John leaving, over and over again, John avoiding his eyes, John making poor attempts at jokes to change the subject. John's complete and total discomfort with Sherlock showing vulnerability. "You're rubbish at it," he realizes.

"Complete pants," John nods.

Sherlock feels a smile spread across his face. John starts laughing and then Sherlock joins him, and then they gasping for air and John's hands are cupping Sherlock's face and they are kissing, and laughing, and there is a faint edge of hysteria that threatens tears, so Sherlock pushes John into his chair and straddles his lap.

There is such unbelievable heat within him, filling him up and pushing everything else out. He knows it can't be sustained for long, but he rocks slowly against John and bites John's lips and strokes his fingers across John's collarbone. John tugs Sherlock's shirt from his trousers and splays a hand across the middle of his back, and Sherlock crumples against him.

"I don't want to be, you know."

Sherlock hums a questioning sound.

"Rubbish at feelings, I – I don't want to be. Not with you. I want to figure it out. I thought the sex would help – that's always been the easy part, for me."

Sherlock feels a familiar stab of irritation. "It's the easy part for nearly everyone, it seems. But it's not for me, John. I want it, I – I didn't realize I would want it. I don't know how much I want it or for long I'll want it or what, exactly, _it_ even is—" he's working up a full head of steam, tensing to draw away.

John's arms tighten around his back. "It causes you this much distress and you offered it to me, just to make me forgive you. That was a big thing I did very badly."

"Well. Not all that badly. It was… as a method of communication, it might be useful."

"I really think we ought to try actually talking to one another."

"Mm. We could try both," Sherlock points out, somewhat distracted by the heat of John's body and the idea of curling up there and sleeping, and what that might communicate. Whether John would understand it. Whether he would accept it. John kisses his forehead and it feels like some sort of forgiveness in itself. But John apparently wants to start trying the talking immediately.

"Trap me in a train carriage to trick me into…"

It is distressing that it takes Sherlock several seconds to realize what John is talking about. "Forgiving me," he whispers, but it doesn't sound right.

"I don't think that's the word you mean. I never would have imagined it, Sherlock, but I _really_ don't think that's the word you mean."

"Don't be ridiculous. I always say what I mean." John just twitches an eyebrow. "I always know what I mean, then." John shakes his head the slightest amount. It makes Sherlock's stomach ache, the inability to understand. He thinks suddenly of his mother, patting his cheeks dry and telling him there was nothing wrong with not knowing everything, but she was wrong, she didn't understand that it wasn't _fair_ that Mycroft could know everything and he couldn't. His father had smiled slightly and assured Sherlock that in time, Sherlock would know a great deal that Mycroft would never know.

"Hey. Sherlock," John is rubbing his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones, drawing him back out of his head.

"Why don't I know what I mean?"

John slides his hands down to rest on Sherlock's hips. "Why don't you talk it through?"

"Hmm?"

"You always say things are 'absurdly simple' when you explain them to me. So… take me through it."

Sherlock touches his forehead to John's for a moment and breathes. "You're magnificent. Absolutely singular."

"That's a good place to start, yeah," John's breath is warm on Sherlock's cheek and it makes his chest tight, and he suddenly realizes that is evidence. Data, there's heaps of it, years worth – even the years they were apart. Perhaps those especially.

Sherlock remains silent, reviewing the data in his head, all pointing to a conclusion that ought to be ridiculous, but when he lands on the word in his mind, he realizes it's the most certain he's ever been in a conclusion.

He laughs. "There's nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."

"Mm, good, that's one for the blog."

"Hush, John. Don't you want to know what I've figured out?"

"Go on, then."

"It – it hurt me to leave you. It scared me to witness your pain. The idea that you might have loved me, in exactly the way everyone accused you of –"

"Don't tell me you didn't know. You didn't _observe_?" John sounds genuinely surprised. As if it were obvious, as if Sherlock should have known, but how could he have? John with his girlfriends, John shouting down everyone who implied there were anything more than friendship. John's matter of fact 'I'm not actually gay.' From that, Sherlock was supposed to deduce love?

"No, I – I didn't. Until a few weeks ago, you said you loved me but you didn't - you implied you only realized you loved me when I died. It's probably much easier to love me when I'm not actually there –"

"Christ. No, Sherlock. It's – it's significantly easier to love you when you're alive, you berk."

"So you're saying-"

"Yes. I said I loved you before, and I forgot how literal you can be about these things. I still love you. Course I do."

"But you wouldn’t forgive me."

"Sherlock, you hurt me as badly as I've ever been hurt. You – can you understand the scope of what you did to me? Yes, I was furious at you – I still am, you know. And that's – that's going to come out, sometimes."

Sherlock lifts himself delicately off John's thighs, sits on the floor with his back against the chair, John's knees bracketing his shoulders. John slides a hand into his hair and scratches gently at his scalp. "You still haven't told me what conclusion you've reached. Why's it so bloody important I forgive you?"

"You don't know? You didn't observe?" Sherlock mimics, not mocking, not exactly, but what a pair of utter fools they are.

"I have to admit, the bit where you kissed my eyelashes was telling."

Sherlock hunches forward in embarrassment before John slides a hand around and strokes his throat. "Hey. I liked that bit. I'd like it better if you told me in words, though. Even if it's just this once and you can never say it again. I need to hear it, okay?"

Sherlock leans his head backwards and looks up at John, who is beautiful even from this angle. "I love you." He pushes the words out in a rush before he can change his mind, and then wishes he weren't sitting on the floor with his tilted back like a child, wishes he hadn't tricked John earlier tonight, or earlier still, or ever, wishes he had done so much better by this man. Knows he couldn't have, or wouldn't have, and probably won't going forward. He stands and faces John, who also stands, pressing his entire body against Sherlock's – _god._ "John, I need to think, I can't think when you're-"

"You just said words I've been dreaming of hearing you say for years, Sherlock. If you think I can hold off touching you right now –" He pushes himself up and Sherlock instinctively ducks his head so their mouths can meet, inwardly marveling at himself. John's hands are back in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock lets his eyes close and just enjoys being soundly kissed by John Watson. John pulls away and laughs slightly when Sherlock unthinkingly chases his mouth. He slides a hand down Sherlock's cheek, presses a delicate finger to Sherlock's lips.

"You are the best, and wisest man I have ever known. Yes, of course I forgive you."

Sherlock is horrified to feel tears forming and he squeezes his eyes shut, curls his fingers around John's where they rest on his mouth, kisses his fingers, unfurls them and kisses his palm, touches the tip of his tongue to John's skin, relishes the slight shiver this produces. "I love you," he says again, because the only thing more frustrating than repetition is uncertainty. And about this, John must never ever be uncertain.


End file.
